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by Angel10242
Summary: He stumbled through the darkened alleys, every muscle screaming at him to stop and rest while his mind desperately forced his body to keep on moving through the early morning silence. He had to keep going. His one thought was to get to Baker Street, to safety.
1. Escape

**Disclaimer: Alas, I own nothing, and make no gains from this work**

**Warnings: Rated T with references to torture (not explicit)**

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He stumbled through the darkened alleys, every muscle in his body screaming at him to stop and rest while his mind desperately forced his body to keep on moving through the early morning silence. Sometimes he would falter and sway as his vision tunnelled and sparks danced in front of his eyes, and he'd forget what he was doing and how to get one bloodied foot in front of the other. But then he would grit his teeth and, despite the pain, _because_ of the pain, keep going. He had to keep going. His one thought was to get to Baker Street, to safety.

As he concentrated on progressing he catalogued his injuries, finding a small comfort in the dispassionate way his brain was able to work through them, albeit more sluggishly than usual. The men who had interrogated him had been thorough... broken wrist, at least three ribs, possibly a fractured cheekbone...Internal bleeding from the kicks to his kidneys and the other unpleasant things they had jabbed him with... the burns across his torso... those were all the worst. Then there were the minor aches and woes... the dehydration that kept him weak, the lack of sleep to disorientate, the countless bruises and cuts from the constant beatings.

He didn't know how long they had kept him for, or what they had intended to do next. The tortures had been getting progressively worse over time as they grew frustrated with his inability to answer their questions. At first he had stalled and given his usual clever responses but that had faded over time. Not that he told them what they wanted to know, but the longer it went on the less he understood what they were even asking for, and his confusion frustrated them and caused them to hurt him even more.

The last attempt had been the waterboarding, a truly unpleasant experience. He hadn't begged. _A Holmes never begs, _had flitted through his mind, remembering the lectures in his father's study all those years ago, but it had been close. Too close. One more session and he would have been on his knees telling them anything they wanted to hear so long as it stopped. That was when he knew he had to get out if he was to keep the last shred of sanity he had left. He had long stopped expecting (or even hoping) to be rescued.

Looking up he saw a sign for the underground - Marylebone Station - not far now. Just a couple of streets to go. Under his breath he started chanting a mantra while he focused on his feet and the pavement in front of him, anything now to keep himself moving and get to safety. _Get to the flat. Get to the flat. Get to the flat. _He had dreamt of Baker Street when being held, thinking longingly of familiar surroundings, of tea and companionship, of being back with people he trusted. Family, of one sort or another.

He still wasn't entirely sure how he had escaped actually. The events had been serendipitous to say the least. They had left him curled up on the floor of their interrogation room broken and gasping for breath after the simulated drowning, locking the door behind them. He was trying to pull himself up to a sitting position when he caught a glimpse of something metallic glinting in the corner of the room. By some miracle he had not only managed to drag himself over to it - a paper clip! - but also hide it and get back to the chair before anyone came to collect him and take him back to his usual cell.

By then it was all he could do to keep his wits about him as they threw him inside so they would go away. The paper clip and the lock picking skills he had picked up a lifetime ago were all he needed to get out of the room. He was horribly aware that the rest of the building was a mystery to him, along with his location, so he had no idea how far he would get. He was pretty sure he was still in London but that was all. He still had trousers and a shirt, although both were filthy, bloody and torn. No shoes. He could manage without. He had worked on the lock as quickly as he was able, given his weakened state. And then, by what he could only class as pure luck he had managed to escape.

And now he was here, Baker Street. He had calculated that if he was lucky, and he did seem to be having a streak of it today, torture excepted, he'd had maybe an hour's head start before they noticed he was gone. _Not long enough,_ he had thought as he had tried to run from the building and get as far away from his captors as possible. That hour had passed long before night had turned into dawn as he navigated the familiar London streets, hiding in the shadows and alleys, away from those who might see him in the early hours in his broken state. He could only pray to a god he didn't believe in that he would make it as far as 221b without them finding him and taking him back. Surely they knew by now he was gone? He knew it was risky to come here - _so obvious - _but he couldn't think of anywhere else.

Just two doors away he blacked out and to his horror fell. Lying on the cold pavement he almost wept, unable to think of any way he would be able to get up and take those last few steps to the familiar black door. Then behind him was the sound of screeching brakes and his mind instantly connected it to _them. They found me and they will take me back and this time I won't get away and - oh god! _The stab of terror piercing his gut gave him a final burst of adrenalin and got him to draw up his last vestiges of strength to stand upright and make it to the front door.

He leant on the door, unable to open it. Keys were long gone, lost who knows where, days (weeks?) ago. He tried to knock but he was so weak he could hardly hear it himself, let alone have it carry to the upstairs flat. The emotions he'd kept inside all this time, through it all, were close to the surface now and threatening to break as he gazed at the impenetrable barrier of the wooden door.

And then, another miracle. Oh, how he needed a final one this day. He heard footsteps, someone coming down the stairs. He tapped again with the knocker, hoping this time it would be heard.

Muffled voices, Mrs Hudson, John. A crunch of metal as the yale lock was undone, and the door opened, and he fell into the arms of the doctor. Never had he been more grateful to see him.

"John" he managed, his voice cracked and faint.

"Jesus!" cried the doctor, hastily taking hold of him and easing him into the hallway and down onto the floor. "What have they done to you?"

Another set of footsteps thundering down the stairs, and then a shout of horror as the new arrival saw his condition.

Finally safe, finally with those he could trust to protect him, he felt himself slip into unconsciousness, but not before hearing the anguished cry from his brother,

"_Mycroft!"_

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**A/N - **

thought it was time someone other than J or S got kidnapped!

Hope you like so far. Reviews, comments and con crit always appreciated.

Next chapter will be up in a couple of days x


	2. Baker Street

John quickly moved the unconscious man further into the hallway and into the recovery position, checking his airways as he did so. Sherlock was instantly by his side, a hand lightly on Mycroft's shoulder as he tried to both reassure himself that his brother was at least alive and work out what had happened to him.

"Call an ambulance Sherlock" he requested, fishing his mobile out of his back pocket and holding out to the detective without taking his eyes off Mycroft.

When Sherlock made no move to take the phone John looked up, a frustrated "Sherlock!" on his lips.

"I'm not… John… I don't think we should do that," Sherlock said slowly, looking down at his brother with a sharp intensity in his eyes. John could see his brain racing through scenarios from where he crouched, despite the shock of seeing his brother in such distress. "There's something wrong, apart from the fact Mycroft is hurt… These injuries are clearly the result of a prolonged attack - a kidnapping of some sort probably. I would calculate the earliest happened maybe six? Seven days ago?"

"Given the bruising pattern around his left wrist I'd say six, at least," the doctor confirmed.

"So… besides the very obvious questions of how they got him in the first place and why half the Armed Forces weren't deployed to retrieve him… why did I not know? Capture is always a risk with as high a profile role as Mycroft's - we both knew that. I don't have access to the same levels of surveillance he has on me, so we have an agreement in place that his office is to inform me immediately of any kidnap or ransom situations. It is one of the only things I requested from my brother with regards to his safety and he would have honoured it. And…" Sherlock frowned as he thought back, "I had a text from Mycroft's assistant on Wednesday - three days ago - confirming my lunch with him next month, but not a word about him being missing. There are code words she would have known to use to warn me covertly if necessary."

"Cover up? Inside job?" The Doctor was succinct, his attention back on the injured man as he crouched and took his pulse. Heart rate was fast but it felt weak - dehydrated but doing far better than John would have expected given his physical state.

"I don't know. But I don't want to take him to the hospital just yet if we can avoid it. The fewer people who know he is here right now the better. At least until Mycroft is conscious again and can tell us what happened."

John stood up and turned to face Sherlock. "We need to get him upstairs and start treatment. I haven't even begun to catalogue the injuries he's got, but he needs fluids and pain relief at the very least. Doesn't look like he's eaten or had anything to drink in days."

Sherlock nodded and between them they carried Mycroft up to their flat, carefully placing him on the kitchen table for want of a more appropriate examination area.

oOo oOo oOo

With Mycroft resting on the table (which had been expediently prepared by Sherlock simply pushing all the papers onto the floor and covering it with a throw from the sofa) they were able to start a proper evaluation. John raced up the stairs for his medical bag and Sherlock collected additional supplies from around the flat. Both were used to patching each other up after various scrapes and had purloined enough from Barts that their medical stock was extensive enough to cover almost any emergency.

When John got back he quickly cut off Mycroft's shirt and trousers in order to assess his injuries. He swore under his breath as the extent of the damage and the likely cause became clear. Having worked as an army medic in Afghanistan he was all too familiar with the signs of interrogation. There was nothing immediately life threatening though, so he started a saline drip in order to get Mycroft rehydrated first, hooking it up on one of the high kitchen cupboards. Keeping check that Mycroft continued to breath without obstruction he took up a notebook and began charting. The years of field work with the RAMC had given him a solid grounding in making the best of limited supplies and imperfect working conditions and he took it in his stride. Their flat might not be ideal but it was a million times better than trying to do surgery in a field hospital in the desert whilst being shot at.

Unbeknown to him, Sherlock had returned to the table and hissed under his breath as he looked properly at his brother, unfettered by clothes. He reached a hand down, then took it away again, unsure of whether it would hurt him more to be touched than it would reassure.

"You know? You understand what has happened to him?" John asked him carefully, briefly gripping Sherlock's elbow in sympathy as he did, sure that Sherlock would see everything that John saw, and more, but needing to check.

"I know," confirmed Sherlock, his voice betraying the depth of emotion he was trying to keep under control. He was easily able to identify each and every harm exacted. His fear and anguish at seeing his older brother so broken was quickly being replaced by a cold fury as he decided how long those responsible would be kept alive as he taught them in excruciating detail what happened to those who hurt _his _brother.

"Will you help me? I need to review each injury, clean him up, see where I start treatment…" For a moment John paused, the enormity of the situation suddenly getting to him. This was _Mycroft Holmes_ - the man who 'is the British Government' according to Sherlock, the scariest person he'd ever met, and his best friend's brother. And he was bruised, bloodied and unconscious on their kitchen table and no one as yet had any idea what had happened to him. John shut his eyes for a moment, allowed his personal distress to wash over him, then steeled himself to be the doctor both of the Holmes brothers needed him to be.

Together they worked quietly on the man, cleaning and tending as best they could to the various injuries. Without access to an X-ray John was unable to ascertain whether the ribs were cracked or just badly bruised, but the treatment was much the same. A big ugly bruise across Mycroft's abdomen was indicative of internal bleeding, but John's instinct told him it wasn't as serious as it looked - painful but not life threatening. John was worried about Mycroft's wrist too and was pretty sure from the extensive swelling that it was fractured. He could ice and strap it for now, but would want to have it X-rayed at some point in the next couple of days to be sure. Carefully he stitched the various cuts and found an icepack to ease the swelling on the wrist.

Although the injuries were extensive in both quantity and quality and certainly weren't to be underestimated, both John and Sherlock were more concerned with Mycroft's mental wellbeing. Both had recognised the signs of the water-boarding and sleep deprivation, and although neither voiced it, they worried about what other psychological trauma had been inflicted on the man whilst held captive. Trauma which might not heal as quickly or as cleanly as a few cracked ribs.

There was also the very real possibility that this wasn't the end and those who had captured Mycroft might come looking. John left briefly at one point to retrieve his gun and extra ammunition, and Sherlock checked the windows and doors, and texted Mrs Hudson to tell her under no circumstances to open the front door. These preparations felt paltry in the face of an unknown enemy of indeterminate size, but they were all that could be done right then until they knew who else they could trust to help them.

oOo oOo oOo

Mycroft woke to the low sound of hushed voices and the sting of someone cleaning his shredded feet. Disorientated, he tried to sit up, unsure of where he was or who he was with - flight or fight instincts insisting he prepare for danger. The cloth rubbing his foot dropped and a hand gently pressed on his chest, easing him back down onto the - _Bed? Floor? No - table_, his mind supplied. He glanced around wildly in panic, not recognising his surroundings other than it wasn't his cell or the interrogation room.

"Mycroft?" Asked a worried voice.

_I recognise that voice_ he thought hazily, _John… Watson. If that's John, then I must be at Baker Street. Or maybe the hospital? _

Then another voice, one he knew as well as his own.

"My…?" Sherlock asked plaintively, trying to convey all his worry for his big brother in one syllable.

Mycroft was going to answer but drifted again on the edge of consciousness, remembering the last time Sherlock had used that tone… _he was eighteen and off to University after the long summer break and his eleven year old brother didn't want him to go…Sherlock had been insistent something bad was going to happen based on the angle of the…_

"Mycroft!" This time John spoke loudly, gripping his hand to anchor him to the here and now.

"'Lock? John?" He managed to voice, his throat dry, "Baker Street?" He opened his eyes again as he struggled to stay awake, looking up at the ceiling.

Sherlock came around to stand beside John so he could see them both in his peripheral vision. He raised his head and winced at the movement. John hastily found a cushion to prop him up so he could look at them.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said slowly, grasping his arm comfortingly, "You are in our flat, yes on Baker Street. Don't try to move - you've been hurt. You came to our door early this morning, injured. We don't have confirmation of where you have been or what has been done to you, but you are safe now. We will protect you."

Mycroft blinked slowly, trying to absorb the words into his fuzzy brain. "Water?" he croaked, and was quickly supplied with a cup and a straw so he could ease the dryness. Taking a couple of small sips he started to feel more coherent.

"What happened to me?" he asked

He got a wry smile from John who answered, "Good question. We were hoping you could tell _us_ that."

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**A/N** - Thanks to all those who followed / favourited this story - I was totally bowled over to get such a positive response to the first chapter, and I hope chapter 2 didn't disappoint. The next couple will help explain what happened to Mycroft and who is responsible. (A plot! There's an actual plot!)

Reviews, comments and con crit always appreciated x


	3. A cup of tea and some questions

It would be some hours before Mycroft was well enough to answer any detailed questions. John had finished bandaging his feet and they had both helped him down from the table and into Sherlock's room to rest. He lay on the bed, grateful for the warmth of the duvet. They had left the door ajar and light shone through as well as the sound of the two men talking in low voices in the living room. Both John and Sherlock had been through traumatic events and he didn't have to vocalise his need for these little reassurances that he wasn't alone in his dark cell any more.

Before he left, Sherlock had sat on the side of the bed and talked clinically and dispassionately through the treatment Mycroft had received from John and the prognosis for each injury. To anyone else this might have seemed insensitive or even cruel to bring them all back to his attention but Mycroft needed it - he needed the data to be able to understand, process and analyse. Once he had finished Sherlock shifted uncomfortably on the edge of the bed, looking down at Mycroft undecidedly, a question clearly poised which he was hesitant to voice.

"It's okay Sherlock," Mycroft had said drowsily, "whatever you need to ask… just ask."

Sherlock had opened his mouth, paused, closed it again. Then taken a deep breath and asked, gently, "We didn't check for any intimate injuries, My. Did they? - Was there any? - Did they hurt you anywhere else?"

Mycroft had closed his eyes and a hint of a smile touched his lips. "No Sherlock, it's ok. No sexual assault. I promise you."

He'd heard Sherlock's relief - a brief exhale and murmured "that's good". Then a light touch on his arm before leaving him to sleep.

Now Mycroft was alone. He was bone-achingly tired and should sleep, but his mind was whirling through the events of the day and he couldn't relax enough yet to voluntarily submit to his body's needs. His overriding emotion was of relief - he had been right to come here.

He didn't always get along with his little brother but he knew they both cared deeply for each other, even if it didn't always show. And Doctor Watson was such a big part of Sherlock's life that over time he had become a friend to Mycroft too, almost another little brother at times - relying on him to get both Sherlock and John out of trouble while they giggled like naughty school boys. But when it came down to it they were both unthinkingly loyal to family - blood or adopted. Mycroft knew he would be safe here - that they would protect him to the end and that he could trust them completely.

He eventually slipped into sleep, exhaustion forcing the thoughts from his head as his aching body relaxed into the soft bed.

oOo oOo oOo

When Mycroft woke it dark outside and he forgot where he was for a second and felt a flash of panic before he registered the bedding over him, his treated injuries, the sounds of normal life from the other room. He'd slept through the day.

With a wince he managed to pull himself up and out of the bed. He hissed as his feet touched the floor. Even though they were bandaged the damage from his race across London barefooted had left its mark. The tenderness made him think twice about putting any weight on them, but then his desire to find the bathroom and relieve himself was fairly urgent. Gritting his teeth he stood and shuffled to the bathroom, feeling every muscle singing out in pain as he did.

Once finished with his ablutions Mycroft propped himself up against the sink and looked in the mirror. He frowned at the image looking back at him - his face was a mass of ugly bruises. He looked down at his body and saw more of the same in between the white dressings and bandages. He sighed reflectively. It was going to take some weeks before he was back to anything approaching his usual physical state. He would have liked a shower, or better yet, a bath. But he would need help and he knew there were more pressing things to be dealt with right then. It would have to wait.

There was a knock on the bathroom door and John called out,

"Mycroft, I've left you a cup of tea and some clothes on the bed. If you feel up to it come through to the living room in a bit so we can talk."

Mycroft tried to speak and coughed, then managed a slightly croaky "Thank you, John."

He stayed where he was until he heard John leave, discretely turning on the bedside light before closing the bedroom door behind him. Then Mycroft ventured back into the bedroom and took a look at the clothes left out. He was relieved to see that John had provided some of Sherlock's soft pyjama bottoms, an old t-shirt and one of his own jumpers as well as some thick socks to protect his bandaged feet. All of it was cotton, soft from repeated washing. _Not my usual attire_ he thought, picturing his standard three piece suits and starched shirts. However the thought of wearing anything more than these comfortable, easy items was impossible. As it was he put them on at a snail's pace, wincing every time he caught an unexpected bruise or cut.

Once he was dressed he sat down on the bed again, his energy sapped by the small task. He drank the tea John had left, and realised belatedly how thirsty he was. Feeling he had put it off long enough and chastising himself for his procrastination he stood again and made it to the doorway. Taking a deep breath in preparation he opened the door and stepped into the kitchen.

oOo oOo oOo

Sherlock and John were sitting at the kitchen table when Mycroft limped in. John quickly pulled out a chair for him and took his mug, refilling from the pot of tea steaming in the middle of the table and adding a splash of milk and plenty of sugar. In addition he brought Mycroft a glass of water and told him sternly to drink as he was still dehydrated. At the order, in John's best Doctor voice Sherlock and Mycroft shared an amused glance, but Mycroft meekly picked up his glass and sipped. He might not appreciate the order but he did agree with the sentiment.

As they sat around the table drinking their tea John questioned Mycroft on his physical state, checking him over and assessing how he was doing. John was particularly worried about Mycroft's wrist but when he re-splinted and dressed it he was pleased to see the swelling had visibly reduced.

Once he was done with his medical care John took the teapot back over to the sink and began to prepare a fresh pot. While he pottered around filling the kettle and cleaning out the pot Sherlock and Mycroft started talking.

"So, brother dearest," Sherlock drawled, "Who exactly did you manage to upset this time?"

Mycroft's lip twitched imperceptibly into a ghost of a smile. "I assure you Sherlock, I have no idea what it is I did to deserve such… _physical_… retribution. Or from whom."

And that was the not inconsequential elephant in the room. Who had targeted Mycroft? Now he was free did that mean they were going to go looking for him? Or was someone else in danger now instead?

"How long did they have you?"

"Seven days I think." Mycroft replied with a frown, unsure exactly of the time that he was away for. "What day is it?"

"It's Saturday."

"Oh." Mycroft paused as he thought back. "I was taken Friday last…"

"How did they take you?"

"Ah, well," Mycroft grimaced slightly, "That, I'm afraid, is a less than impressive story. I am supposed to be in Obecnice in the Czech Republic this week for a meeting with - well, you don't need to know who with, it isn't relevant," Mycroft demurred. "I got into the car on Friday morning to go to the airport and then next thing I knew I woke up tied to a chair in a room in that god-awful place. My hypothesis is that an anaesthetic gas of some description was released into the car shortly after we left. I can't think of how else I was drugged unless it was topical on the seat or similar…" Mycroft's eyes narrowed as he thought back; unimpressed his security detail had allowed this to happen. There were going to be some difficult conversations once he got back to the office. Heads would roll.

Sherlock dismissed the detail of how exactly Mycroft had been poisoned. It wasn't important at that moment, although he would want to investigate further later. "Do you know who took you?"

"I'm not entirely sure but I have my suspicions."

Sherlock looked at Mycroft sharply, reading in his face that he wanted to hold back on answering that question for now. Changing tack slightly, he asked another question, "What did they want from you?"

"Information, as you'd expect." Mycroft confirmed. He frowned as he thought about the interrogations he had endured, "Actually their demands of me were a little scatter-gunned. I'm not entirely sure yet what their end goal was. They asked me some very odd questions at times. I have some suspicions but I don't have proof or a definitive answer yet. It was a little hard to process everything whilst I was there. I had other things on my mind…"

Mycroft tailed off, his ribs aching in protest at the deep breath he had taken involuntarily in response to thoughts of the after effects of the torture he'd been subjected to as part of the questioning process. The pain and their persistence had frequently left him dazed and unable to fully comprehend the reasoning behind his abductor's needs at each stage. This impairment of his cognisant abilities had affected him deeply and he felt a twinge of distress even now remembering his inability to _think_ as he wanted to.

By then John had re-joined them at the table with a freshly brewed pot of tea and some biscuits. He poured for each of them, giving them an opportunity to stop and regroup for a moment as it was clear that Mycroft was in some pain.

John started the discussion again, feeling that a bit of bluntness was needed.

"Look Mycroft, I know you are hesitant to tell us everything but you've got to give us something here. We aren't expecting you to reveal state secrets or the like, but we do need to know who was after you and how dangerous they are. I mean, we are assuming _very_ given they managed to abduct _you_. But we need to know. We can't form an effective defence unless we know what we are dealing with. Who else we can trust." His tone softened, and he reached out to touch Mycroft's hand where it rested on the table next to his tea as he spoke with sincerity, "I _am_ sorry, Mycroft. I know this is hard. But we want to help you, and we can't unless you tell us."

Mycroft nodded slowly. He knew John was correct, of course, but he didn't want to drag anyone else into the mess. But it looked like he had no choice.

He kept it succinct. Taking a fortifying sip of tea, he spoke.

"It isn't that I don't trust you. I do. It's just… well… Sherlock, John, I suppose there are some things that you need to know… It's to do with the Swiss and the new security system at the palace."

Sherlock and John looked at each other, eyebrows raised in puzzlement - surely they had misheard? - and as one turned back to Mycroft and replied, "The Swiss…?"

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**A/N** - Thanks to all those who are following or have reviewed this story - I should have another chapter up by the end of the week and I hope to keep to twice weekly updates from here on out.

Reviews, comments and con crit always appreciated x


	4. The Swiss?

Sherlock's raised eyebrow of query back to Mycroft spoke volumes. Mycroft elaborated, slowly;

"Well, I should say it started with the Swiss and the Palace security - for some reason one of their Secret Service was part of the team instrumental in setting up the software. We knew, of course, but there seemed little harm in it - we monitored everything being sent. It was no more or worse than the surveillance we have set up in most European countries around the various monarchies."

John cut in, "You allow other countries to spy on our Royal Family?" His voice rising in surprised outrage.

"Obvious, John," said Sherlock with disdain, "Of course he does. Far better to have them in plain sight and under monitoring of his own. Do continue Mycroft."

"Yes, Sherlock, it _is_ obvious, and is understood across governments. A gentleman's agreement if you like - we all have spies in our organisations and we allow them limited access and let them report back, so long as they don't cross any lines. But…" and a ghost of a frown crossed Mycroft's face, "There have been discrepancies recently. Nothing large, but small cracks in our monitoring systems. People where they shouldn't be…identity codes that don't quite make sense. Someone is in deeper than they should be. I noticed it first with the Palace."

"Of course," Sherlock nodded, "But what about the-?"

"No. Too -"

"Ah yes, I see. But still, have you thought about the…? Well of course you have." Sherlock dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. "So. Not the Swiss then, too obvious. But who?"

"Well. Quite."

Through this exchange, conducted primarily through Holmesian telepathy, John sat between them looking bewildered. When the brothers finally stopped speaking in one word sentences and sat back with their tea, satisfied that all was explained, John finally interrupted.

"Uh, gentlemen."

Two pairs of grey-blue eyes turned to face him, with identical _come on John, surely you've figured it out by now_ withering looks. John shrugged, unintimidated by them. Sherlock glowered at him an average of 17 times a day so he'd become pretty impervious to it.

"Sherlock, you know I need more than a couple of words," he chided.

Sherlock sighed melodramatically and gave him another glare, but there wasn't much force in it. "It is boringly simple," he rattled off, "Mycroft's office has been infiltrated. There's someone close to him who is manipulating things to allow a counter-intelligence agent to get access to things they shouldn't be able to."

"So why did they take you, Mycroft?" John questioned, frowning as he processed Sherlock's explanation. "I mean, I get that there is a leak and that you need to find it and stop it. But why the kidnapping? Had you started to investigate? Got too close?"

"Because they weren't sure how much I knew," Mycroft explained, "Looking back at it now with hindsight their goals in taking me are far clearer. Their questions were designed not to force me to give up information as such, more to validate what they had already found whilst they gave their mole some time to put things in motion back in my office. We are in the process of negotiating a trade deal with the Middle East - merely days away from finalising it. There are a lot of companies - and countries for that matter - with a vested interest in proceedings. My supposition is that whilst I've been detained emails have been sent on my behalf to authorise a good number of those interested parties as part of the deal. By the time I would have been released…" a barely perceptible pause, "the deal would be complete and multi- billion pound contracts signed."

Mycroft had paused unintentionally as a moment of shock hit him at the thought that perhaps they hadn't intended releasing him, that they might have planned to kill him once the deal had been approved. To anyone else the moment would have passed unnoticed, but Sherlock saw it flash through his brother's eyes and looked at him with sympathy. It was one thing to be kidnapped and subjected to humiliation and hurt, but it was another to come face to face with your own mortality - something Sherlock had been put through himself far too many times. Mycroft, with his office job and dislike of legwork, had been sheltered from such life and death scenarios for the most part.

"So how is it no one has noticed you've been gone?" John asked, "Surely they expected you to be in contact?"

"I _assume_," and the word was spoken with disdain. Neither Holmes brother enjoyed having to make assumptions. They liked facts and evidence based solutions, "That as my blackberry was with me when I got into the car last Friday my kidnappers have been using it to keep in contact with my assistant and others over the past week, continuing the illusion I am at the meeting in the Czech Republic. It would not be out of character for me to communicate through email and text when away. I rarely call."

"Okay," John decided to summarise, "So you have a mole in your office assisting a spy, or spies, to manipulate trade deals for financial benefit. They took you to ensure you didn't stop the deals after you started to notice the manipulation. We don't know who or where is behind it, or who the mole is. But we do know this is on a massive scale. I mean, this meeting you should be at this week - you aren't alone in attending, right?"

Mycroft nodded in confirmation.

"Well then, how come no one has queried with your office why you aren't there? Or if the meeting was fictional from the start, how many people would have to be involved to set something like that up? Seems to me this is a lot of effort to go to for the sake of one trade agreement."

Oh I don't know," Mycroft replied blandly, "In my experience there isn't much people won't do provided the price is right. And this deal is worth a _lot_ of money. Not everyone is as loyal as you Doctor Watson." And he flashed back to meeting John for the first time, his instant loyalty to Sherlock and his refusal to be bribed. It was why Mycroft was there now, why he knew these two men were trustworthy with his life.

Just then they were interrupted by a text alert from Sherlock's phone. He glanced down at it, then back up to Mycroft, his face questioning.

"It's Anthea. She's asking to meet with me."

oOo oOo oOo

Mycroft was instantly alert. He had trusted his assistant implicitly, but now he knew he had a traitor in his office he had to be objective. It was entirely possible it was Anthea. Improbable, but not impossible.

"I think you should meet with her," he confirmed, "We need to know sooner rather than later whether she is to be trusted or not."

Sherlock passed around his phone so they could read the message.

_Mr Holmes has instructed me to pass some files on to you regarding your latest case. Please confirm you will be available to receive today at 7pm - A_

"No panic code," Mycroft commented, "But it is an unusual message for Anthea to be sending. Have her come here - let's not get the general public involved."

"Agreed," John said, getting up to clear the table. "Although none of this 'we' Mycroft - you will be staying well out of sight."

Mycroft sighed. He knew John was right - after all in his battered state he would be no good in a fight if it came to that, and letting anyone else see that he was there was a risk too great to take right then. But he really wanted to be the one to assess Anthea and hear what she had to say. If she was the mole it was a deception that would strike deep into his heart. She had been with him for years and he had trusted her with many of his most private thoughts.

A text was sent -

_221b Baker Street, 7pm - SH_

Then it was time for action. All traces of Mycroft's presence had to be removed from the living areas. They agreed Mycroft could stay within Sherlock's room and therefore within earshot of the conversation. It was usual for the door to be closed and there would be no reason for Anthea to legitimately enter it, so he should be safe. The washing up was done, the first aid kit returned to it's rightful home, and the chairs artfully placed to betray the fact there had been three of them sitting there. Anthea was not as intelligent as Sherlock and Mycroft, but she had worked for Mycroft for long enough to pick up a few tricks and was ruthlessly observant.

Finally both Sherlock and Mycroft deemed the flat passable and they all took their positions.

It was barely ten minutes later that Anthea knocked on the door. Mrs Hudson, primed by John, let her in the front door and brought her up to the flat, where John and Sherlock were sitting in the living room in their respective chairs, John's gun hidden behind his back in case things got ugly.

Once Mrs Hudson had left Anthea put down the manilla file she'd brought with her on the coffee table, and without preamble asked Sherlock, "Have you heard from Mr Holmes in the last couple of days? I think there is something wrong."

"No, nothing from my dear brother in quite some time thankfully," drawled Sherlock carelessly, wanting to see where Anthea would go with this, "What's he done now? No doubt something tediously political." The last two words were spat out as though even saying them left a bad taste in his mouth.

"He's missing." She responded bluntly.

"How do you know?" Sherlock dropped the insouciant tone and leaned forward, his eyes hard as he searched her for any trace of deception.

"There's been something 'off' about his communications all week, since he left for the meeting in Obecnice. But then I got this email from him this morning…" she handed Sherlock her phone.

Sherlock skimmed the content of the email, then looked up at Anthea and nodded briefly. "I see what you mean. Mycroft would never use that phrase."

"I tried to call Mr Holmes but it went through to voicemail, and all I got back was a text response. I used one of the code phrases to request that he check in and he ignored it."

Sherlock continued to assess her, reading all the subtle messages her body language was sending. He thought she was genuine, someone to trust. But there were a couple of further questions he needed to ask first to be sure.

"Why have you come to me? Have you reported this internally?"

Anthea looked straight at Sherlock, her eyes cool and calm. "I came to you, Mr Holmes, because your brother trusts you and Doctor Watson implicitly. I don't know how or why but I think he is in danger. It is logical that any attempt to coerce Mr Holmes would have some kind of insider involvement to be able to get to him, so I can only assume that no one in my office is to be trusted with this news yet. I have told no one my concerns other than the two of you."

"Good," Sherlock confirmed, satisfied with the answer. One last question - he needed to use one of his own code phrases to check Anthea was not being coerced.

"And your blackberry is fully operational again? After the repairs?" _Are you being made to say this? Have you been bugged?_

Anthea's eyes flicked down briefly - she understood.

"I assure you my phone is working perfectly, thank you. There were no repairs needed, although I was concerned about a cracked screen but that seems to have been unfounded. And for some reason the call function on this phone appears to be compromised when on the move." _I'm here of my own volition. There might be eyes on you but I don't think so. The car is bugged. _

Sherlock looked across at John and nodded. He was happy with her answers - they could trust her. He knew Mycroft would be relieved. Anthea was the closest Mycroft got to a confidant these days and to have had her betray him would have been quietly devastating for him.

"I received a package this morning." Sherlock said, cautiously, watching for her reaction.

"You did?" Anthea was careful to keep her tone light and without emotion.

"Yes. Although it wasn't in the best of conditions, but still usable."

Anthea winced but keep up eye contact with Sherlock, waiting for him to tell her what he wanted her to know.

"I believe it -"

"Oh for heaven's sake you two," John interrupted, "enough of the guarded messages. If they are watching the flat they know full well, and Anthea's confirmed she's not been bugged, hasn't she?" He checked with Sherlock who nodded. "Then just tell her." And he stared at Sherlock pointedly until Sherlock gave in.

"He's here. He was kidnapped, beaten and interrogated, but escaped and came to us this morning. No one knows about this other than the three of us, and Mrs Hudson who saw him arrive."

Anthea shut her eyes briefly in relief. She might only be an employee but she cared for Mycroft Holmes and had been very afraid when his communications became increasingly erratic that he was dead. To find him here - alive - was more than she had hoped for.

"Thank you," she said simply, "May I see him?"

* * *

**A/N** - Thanks to all those who are following or have reviewed this story - you are all marvellously fabulous people :o) Next chapter should be up middle of next week.

Reviews, comments and con crit always appreciated x


	5. Reunited

Mycroft and Anthea were reunited with the passion and zeal that was befitting someone of Mycroft's social standing and position in the British Government. In other words, they spoke awkwardly with Mycroft underplaying his injuries and Anthea seeing straight through him, and Anthea talking lightly of her concern for him while he detected in the tightening of her jaw just how distressed she was to see the bruises and abrasions covering him. It surprised him, and he stored it away to ponder on in a more opportune moment. Perhaps Anthea could be considered as a member of the exclusive club of people Mycroft Holmes considered as friends rather than just an employee?

By then it was late and Anthea had to leave the men - she couldn't risk staying longer without it looking suspicious. They hadn't had time to do more than fill her in on the sketchy details of the kidnapping and associated plot, but she agreed to return the following day if she could manage to do so without arising suspicion. They had agreed between them that Anthea would continue to work as normal and be their link back to Mycroft's office for the time being so it was vital no-one suspected her of anything. All parties were curious as to how the interloper in the office would react now that the kidnappers had lost Mycroft. This might be the easiest way to identify them if they did something rash.

"I'll be back tomorrow Mr Holmes," Anthea confirmed in the doorway, pausing as she exited with a little smile for her employer, "Do take care of yourself, won't you?"

Mycroft inclined his head in accord while John escorted Anthea down to the front door. Once John returned he set about making a simple meal for them all while Mycroft and Sherlock hashed out theories at the kitchen table. John put plates of pasta in front of them and frowned at them both until they guiltily picked up forks. Mycroft hadn't eaten properly in a week and found it hard with his swollen jaw from the cracked cheekbone but managed a reasonable meal. Sherlock had a couple of mouthfuls before he got sidetracked onto a wildly improbably theory involving Norwegian terrorists and lost interest in the food but John didn't push him to eat more. John knew there was no point when Sherlock was mid-case - he'd save his energy for later on when Sherlock would need him.

After dinner John told Mycroft in his best _trust me I'm a doctor_ voice that he should go to bed and sleep so he could start to heal. Mycroft was surprised to discover quite how tired he was, despite having slept for most of the day, and capitulated to John's badgering with only a token denial. He climbed into Sherlock's bed gratefully, aware of all the aches and pains that the mental stimulation of the last few hours had kept at bay. He had no sooner thought that when John appeared at the door with a glass of water and some painkillers, and a promise of more in the morning depending on how Mycroft felt.

Mycroft lay in the bed and listened again to the quiet sounds around him of the flatmates winding down their day. It was comforting to have other people near him and he realised with surprise that he hadn't once in the last week thought longingly of his own London house other than a fleeting desire for the softness of his bed when he'd been lying on a cold concrete floor. It was a perfectly nice house - but that was all it was, a house. It wasn't home in the way 221b was for John and Sherlock. Mycroft spent more time in the office and in his club than he did in his house. He was usually far too busy to ever be lonely as such, but once again he was glad he'd come to Baker Street and the companionship and care Sherlock and John offered.

He fell asleep listening to Sherlock's rumbling baritone quietly berating John for his lack of insight into the case while John softly laughed and teased him,

"I'll leave insight to the two geniuses here. You know you only keep me about to make the tea and be impressed when you solve it…" was the last thing Mycroft heard.

oOo oOo oOo

Sunday morning started early in 221b. John again appeared at Mycroft's door with painkillers and helped him with fresh dressings for his wounds before leaving him to shower and change. Mycroft was just about able to manage on his own, but was glad that yet again the clothing provided was soft and easy to pull on with his broken wrist. By the time he made it into the living room he was greeted with the sight of a fully functioning Sherlock case wall thanks to the detective working on it through the night.

Every thought and trace of evidence Sherlock had been able to find in the last twenty-four hours had been pinned to the wall of the living room in a complex spiral mapping representing Sherlock's thought processes. There wasn't much yet in terms of actual evidence as Sherlock hadn't been able to get out to examine any of the scenes yet, but even so the story was impressively documented. Mycroft stood in front of it and reviewed, easily following his brother's concepts and logic of placement.

It took no time at all before the two of them were working in unison to adjust various pieces and add notes and comments as their joint minds came up with new connections. John stood in the kitchen doorway and looked on admiringly, enjoying seeing the brothers put aside their usual sniping and sibling rivalries to work together. Their expressions were animated and John knew that despite the seriousness of the situation they were actually having fun. He thought it was a shame they couldn't be civil more often. One Holmes was a formidable opponent, but the combined intellect of Mycroft AND Sherlock was going to be pretty much unstoppable.

_I almost pity the guys behind this, _thought John smugly as he watched, _Well, I would have if they hadn't hurt Mycroft. Still, I bet they have no idea of the pain that awaits them when we catch them… They are really going to regret starting this. _

oOo oOo oOo

Anthea returned at lunchtime and was quickly ushered into the living room to sit with John on the sofa and listen as Sherlock, with Mycroft's assistance, explained what they had deduced and their suggested plan of attack.

"The biggest challenge we have," Mycroft surmised, "is time. The trade deal is due to be completed on Wednesday. That gives us only two days to find the culprits and neutralise them, as well as revoke any agreements made in my absence before I need to be able to be back in the office for 10am Wednesday to facilitate the PM's signature on the papers." He smiled apologetically, "and I'm afraid it is all going to have to be done with the utmost level of discretion too. We can't have everyone knowing we have been manipulated in this way - it would destroy our standing on the world stage."

"Which does add an interesting extra element to the whole thing," agreed Sherlock, "We can't go in guns blazing -" giving John a stern look while John returned it with an exaggeratedly innocent expression, his eyes glinting with mirth - John had suggested an approach which would have undoubtably been effective but had erred on the side of brutal, involved plenty of firepower, and was anything but discrete. "Subterfuge and misinformation are going to be our best weapons…"

When Sherlock had finished explaining the plan the four sat in silence for a moment, processing. It was daring, dangerous, and both Sherlock and Mycroft had admitted it had a fairly good chance of failure which would be career - if not life - changing for them all. But it was the only approach they had and neither Anthea or John could come up with anything more likely to succeed, or even suggest something safer. After a momentary silence to digest the plan as it stood the floodgates opened and they talked long into the day, arguments fuelled by biscuits and endless mugs of tea. They walked through elements and suggested alternatives and refinements until eventually they were all agreed on the strategy.

When they were done Anthea stood gracefully while the men stretched joints which ached from sitting for too long. Sherlock and Mycroft wandered back over to the wall to add some last touches leaving John and Anthea to take the mugs and detritus from the day back out to the kitchen.

"Are you sure you are okay with this?" John asked her quietly when they were alone, not wanting to draw the brothers' attention, "You are going to be the most vulnerable in all this - we won't be able to get into your office to protect you. I'm very aware we are asking an awful lot of you." He looked at her carefully, the concern and sincerity he felt showing on his face for her to see. "If you change your mind at any point or you feel threatened for any reason just tell us. We can find another way. No trade agreement is worth you getting hurt, and we know they won't hesitate to do so." They both glanced over to Mycroft almost involuntarily at that, taking in his battered form.

Anthea smiled gently at him and shook her head. "Thank you John, but it is fine. We both know this is the only way we will get to the people behind it." Her expression was suddenly fierce before her mask of pleasant neutrality returned. "They can't be allowed to get away with what they did to Mr Holmes. I won't let them."

"He is lucky to have you by his side," John told her admiringly.

"It is no more or less than you would do for Sherlock," she reminded him simply.

He wondered what it was about the Holmes brothers that commanded such loyalty from them. "You're right," he told her, "Of course you are. But it doesn't make it any less dangerous. Please. Be careful."

She nodded in acquiescence and he walked her to the door of the flat where they were joined by Sherlock and Mycroft.

"You know what to do tomorrow? You will keep in touch?" Mycroft asked with a touch of concern in his voice, unable to resist repeating himself.

Anthea smiled and in a surprisingly playful tone replied, "When have I _ever_ let you down Mr Holmes?"

Mycroft smiled at her gently, "Never, my dear. Never."

oOo oOo oOo

They went to bed late that night, each trying to find any loopholes or flaws to be hashed out before they took action the next morning. This was the last chance to change things before they hit the point of no return. Once started the momentum would carry them all along for the ride whether they wanted to or not with no real escape route planned. It was a high risk approach and one fraught with danger for all involved. Ironically Mycroft would now be in the least peril - his face was too recognisable, especially in its current bruised state, for him to be out and about. He would be coordinating from the flat for as long as possible to enable the others to put their elements into effect.

"I just want to thank you both," he told them as they all headed to bed (or in Sherlock's case, to the sofa). "If you hadn't agreed to help I would have been forced to go through official channels and… well… minor government officials are all too easy to replace when these kind of nations are involved. I'm not underplaying my power - I think this one would have been genuinely beyond me to fix for once."

"Think nothing of it brother dear," said Sherlock magnanimously, before turning to look at his brother, a speculative glint in his eye. "Of course, it stands to reason I will be owed a considerable favour in return one day."

Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes good-naturedly, more than used to dealing with Sherlock's self-centredness and somewhat grateful to him for lightening the mood, "Yes Sherlock," he agreed placatingly, "I'm sure you will find some ridiculously excessive way for me to repay you. I have no fears whatsoever on that count."

They parted company then, Sherlock musing aloud about expensive laboratory equipment he wanted in the mortuary at Barts while John and Mycroft exchanged identical looks of amused tolerance at the detective's ability to flit into a whimsical mood in the middle of so much worry.

Tonight they would sleep, and tomorrow battle would commence.

* * *

**A/N** - Well! Hope you are enjoying the story so far - it is my first action based story so I'm trying to keep it fast paced without giving too much of the plot away too soon.

Reviews and comments would be appreciated as always. Next chapter will be up in a few days x


	6. A cunning plan

The plan was deceptively simple. There were three goals - stop the corruption of the trade agreement, find out who was behind it all, and expose the informant within Mycroft's office. All without alerting anyone outside of their group that anything was wrong.

John had helpfully added a bullet point list to their strategy wall covering the salient points:

1. Anthea to act as their insider in the Government offices - hack into the IT systems and see exactly what Mycroft had 'approved' during his absence to give the others leads to follow to eliminate the dodgy deals, and to alert them of any changes as the deadline for the trade agreement approached.

2. Using a combination of mis-information, mis-direction and (if all else failed) out-and-out threats, Sherlock and John to remove the unapproved buyers from the market whilst Anthea and Mycroft lined up the preferred suppliers to take their place.

3. Mycroft, with Anthea's help on the inside, to set up a sting to catch the informant (they had debated approaches long and hard but thought probably through a simple method of leaking different things to different people and see which one was acted upon would be the most effective).

4. Sherlock and Mycroft to use their 'awesome superhero deductive skills' (Sherlock had a sneaky suspicion John was teasing him when he wrote that on their wall. Mycroft wasn't so suspicious - he knew John was _definitely_ teasing them both) to work out who was behind it all and then all four of them would exact retribution for Mycroft's injuries and for having the audacity to disrupt an agreement Mycroft and his team had been working on for nearly a year (As Mycroft put it, _it just wasn't cricket_,_ and very definitely un-British to use such underhand tactics, not to mention frightfully rude_).

Simple.

Child's play.

A walk in the park.

What could possibly go wrong…?

* * *

**A/N** - This chapter was very short, I know, but it felt right to have it as a standalone.

Thanks to all those who are following or have reviewed this story - I don't often reply to reviews but I read and treasure each and every one. Your comments are always appreciated x

Next chapter: Anthea


	7. Into the Lion's den

Anthea arrived into the office as normal on Monday morning at 7am sharp, trying not to feel like she was stepping straight into the Lion's den. Conscious she was almost certainly being watched she carried out her daily routine to the letter all morning, greeting other people in the office, answering questions about her weekend with vague details and half smiles as she always did; refusing to deviate from 'normal' for a second. Luckily one of the skills that had encouraged Mycroft to employ her in the first place was her excellent poker face and ability to keep her emotions hidden from view.

It was a whispered joke around the office that Mr Holmes might have been named _the Iceman_ by Moriarty, but Anthea's composure was so legendary as to earn her the moniker AZ - 'absolute zero'. Not that anyone said that to her face, of course, but Anthea's gossip radar was finely tuned to ensure she heard everything which might be relevant to Mycroft. Sitting at her desk now she allowed her mouth to twitch into a fraction of a smile as she recalled relaying that piece of information to Mr Holmes and the brief moment of shared amusement it had created between them. Others might have been shamed by being the brunt of such gossip but Anthea was proud of it - and she knew Mycroft's respect for her only grew when he heard her described in that way. To the two of them it meant she was doing a good job of being inscrutable.

Of course, a gift for keeping her emotions and thoughts under wraps wasn't the only skill Anthea owned. Another was her excellent ability to manipulate IT systems, which she put to good use as she supposedly worked on a briefing for the Minister for Education. Her role as Mycroft's assistant left her answerable to him alone, and effectively meant she was in charge of the office in his absence. This meant no one disturbed her and no one questioned her task, although given the open-plan office she was still at risk of being seen. With Sherlock's help the previous day they had set up a virtual environment to which Anthea now systematically transferred all the communications and materials which had passed through Mycroft's office servers in the last month - firewalls and security no challenge for her to subvert. The quantity of data was excessive, but a few carefully worded scripts soon allowed her to trim away the excess and analyse the spectrum of what was left.

She didn't dare work on the purloined documents for longer than a few moments in between her other tasks as attracting attention at this stage would be disastrous for them all, so once she had them across and the majority of the junk removed she stopped, carefully replacing all the security measures to hide her tracks, and went to lunch.

As usual on a Monday she went to the coffee shop at the end of the road and bought a chicken salad and a coffee. She felt a slight pang as she realised she'd absently picked up a second salad out of habit for Mycroft. Anthea allowed herself a moment of concern for her boss, hoping he wasn't in as much pain today as he had been yesterday.

Lunch bought, Anthea walked briskly along the Thames until she found a deserted bench some distance from any passers by. Satisfied she was alone she took out her mobile and called Sherlock. Not her blackberry this time - this was a special burner phone. Completely untraceable for 24 hours use.

"Anthea" Sherlock said when he picked up, "You can talk?"

"Yes, briefly, I don't appear to be under surveillance."

She heard some movement in the background and a muttered conversation, then the clear sound of her being put on speakerphone before Mycroft spoke,

"My dear, I trust your morning has been fruitful?"

Anthea smiled at the use of the endearment but kept her tone brisk and business-like. There would be time to appreciate the easing of the boundaries at a later point. "I've processed the files - they are all on the server for you. Initial assessment shows four key companies with whom 'your' communications have increased markedly in the last week. Of course, I've not had the opportunity to review in detail but I have narrowed down the fields for you - it shouldn't take long to verify my estimates." She concluded rapidly.

She heard the tap of a laptop as Sherlock logged on to the server, and a silence as both he and Mycroft skimmed over the contents. Then another voice, John this time, "Thanks Anthea, the two of them are going to be occupied most of the afternoon processing that lot." She detected a grin in his voice and wondered how frustrated they had been that morning waiting for her to contact them. A bored Holmes was a bad thing. Two bored Holmes' - they were lucky the flat was still standing and John hadn't murdered them both.

John continued, although he his voice was more serious now, "And how are you? Is everything okay?"

"Oh I'm fine Doctor Watson." Anthea replied breezily.

"_Seriously_? After all this you are still calling me Doctor Watson? _John_, please." He chided, "And I don't believe for a second it is as 'fine' as you are making out." He dropped his voice slightly, and she heard the click as he took her off speakerphone and then walked out of the room with the phone to somewhere more private. "I just want to double check you feel safe," John continued, "Sherlock and Mycroft both forget what it is they are asking of you, because they don't realise you won't say no to them. But I'm not them, and I know what it is like, so tell _me_ - are you okay? And are you safe?"

Anthea felt a rush of fondness for the army doctor who saw what the brothers missed - the human emotions and flaws which could make or break this. She answered honestly, "John, I'm safe. I was _very_ careful and I will continue to be careful. I didn't feel under threat in the office and I'm on my guard. If they took me whilst Mr Holmes is still gone it would look far too suspicious - I'm worth more to everyone in my job provided they don't think I suspect anything is wrong."

John sighed audibly, "Thank you Anthea. And if that changes - if you feel even the slightest bit uneasy - call us and we will come and rescue you."

Anthea had a sudden flash in her mind of the three men turning up outside a castle kitted in armour and on horse-back, gallantly ready to rescue her from the evil dragon. She suppressed a snigger, knowing full well she was probably a better fighter than Mycroft at least and just as likely to have to rescue them as they her.

She composed herself and asked "How is Mr Holmes?" While she knew he was out of earshot.

"Mycroft? He'll live," John replied brightly - his tone reassuring her greatly, "He's still bruised and looking the worse for wear, but to be honest he's markedly better for a couple of night's sleep and some hot food. The rest will heal over time - no permanent damage."

She could hear the background noise change again as he walked back into the living room with the phone.

"Thank you, I appreciate it. I have to go, John, I need to get back to the office."

She heard him call to the others, telling them she was going, and a farewell from both Sherlock and Mycroft in her direction.

"I'll pick you up after work," John told her, and before she could object, continued, "Don't argue with me. We need to know where you are and that you aren't being held somewhere or the whole plan will be at risk. You'll stay here with us until this is over. Safety in numbers and all that."

Anthea sighed, aware of the risks involved in both returning to her own home and staying at Baker Street. She weighed it up, decided John was right, and crisply told him "6pm, Vauxhall Tube station, it will be less noticeable than you waiting outside the building."

John confirmed the arrangements then they hung up, all parties with more than enough to keep them occupied for the rest of the day.

oOo oOo oOo

The afternoon passed relatively quickly for Anthea who had enough work to do to keep everything running in Mycroft's absence without the added drama of also looking for an informant and trying to work out exactly what had gone on since Mycroft's kidnapping.

Her own communications with the kidnappers - or at least the person holding Mycroft's blackberry - continued as they had done for the last week. Despite her instincts telling her to keep quiet and stop emailing she forced herself to act as though it really was Mycroft on the other end and informed him of everything she normally would. She read the responses with interest and realised that the majority of the correspondence was actually on target - so the person controlling the emails was well informed, and intelligent enough to respond in a close approximation of Mr Holmes' style.

Early on that day an email had appeared explaining his presence at the meeting in Obecnice was required for an extra three days and could she reschedule all his appointments for after Wednesday. They had all debated on Sunday what the kidnappers would do on Monday given that Mycroft was expected back in the office but clearly hadn't returned. Anthea wondered if they were out looking for him or if they thought some kind of accident had befallen him after he'd left their property and that was why he hadn't been seen. It didn't really matter so long as they didn't force her hand too soon. As long as all parties could keep up the pretence of Mycroft being overseas then everything would work just fine.

After all, the agreement was being signed on Wednesday morning - they only had to keep this up for another 36 hours or so before it would all be over.

oOo oOo oOo

As promised John was waiting outside the tube station when Anthea appeared promptly at 6pm, carrying a garment bag and a small holdall as well as her laptop. John quickly relieved her of her bags and they took a tube to Oxford Circus before he hailed a taxi back to Baker Street. It went without saying that the circuitous route was in an attempt to shake off any mild tails she may have picked up.

Once they were seated in the back of the cab John looked down at her bags and smiled with one eyebrow raised in query, "You came prepared?"

She grinned, and he was charmed to see such an unexpectedly natural smile directed at him, "One learns very quickly when working with Mr Holmes to have suitable attire stored in the office for a week's trip to just about anywhere." Anthea explained.

John chuckled appreciatively, understanding very well what it must be like to have to drop everything at a moment's notice… not that Sherlock expected that of him… _much_.

Despite the rush hour traffic they made good time to Baker Street and John jumped out of the cab and opened the door to the building before coming back to assist Anthea with her bags. She wondered why for a moment before realising he was ensuring she was covered by him as much as possible - for this would be the most dangerous part as the chances 221b was under some kind of surveillance was high and her appearance would certainly set off alarm bells somewhere.

Neither of them hesitated and crossed the pavement briskly and walked straight into the house, John closing and locking the door behind him. He gestured her up the stairs and followed with her bags.

When she opened the door to the flat she looked around the living room in amazement - the wall of evidence and strategy from yesterday had exploded and now covered all available space within the room, including the floor, tables, and every single inch of wall-space. The only areas clear were the chairs and sofa, and a careful path between these and the kitchen. Mycroft and Sherlock were sitting in the two armchairs with identical expressions of deep thought and she suppressed a smile at the near mirror-image body language of the two men, both with their hands steepled under their chins and a frown creasing their brows as they thought. They might squabble and declare themselves to be enemies but the two were far more similar than either of them would like to admit.

John followed her through and grinned at her expression. "I'll take these upstairs for you Anthea - you'll be using my room if that is alright?"

"Oh, thank you John… I hadn't thought… are you sure that's okay?" She felt a sudden flash of being the outsider to this group of men who were brothers by blood or by choice. What was she? Merely an employee… Insecurity was not normally a trait of hers, but none of the day had exactly been normal so far.

John looked at her shrewdly and she got the feeling he'd caught most of what she'd thought. "Don't be silly, of course it is okay. I'm not leaving you on the sofa while Sherlock paces back and forth until some ridiculous hour of the morning," he nudged her with his elbow, "Least I can do after you got us all the files today. We wouldn't have got as far as we have without your help - don't you forget it."

oOo oOo oOo

Before long the bags were stored, takeaway ordered and they gathered around the kitchen table to eat. Conversation flowed as the four of them spoke of their progress that day and made refinements to the plans for Tuesday.

Anthea had been correct - there were four companies who were expected to make significant profits from Mycroft's disappearance - Pearson & Turner (surgical instruments), WPS Ltd (nuclear reactor parts), Domitor Pharmaceuticals (drugs manufacturer), and Nicholson brothers (precious metals). As far as they could tell there was nothing linking the four other than this deal, although Sherlock was going to look into associations between them further that night.

With Anthea able to spend time accessing the files she had transferred earlier she was quickly able to write further programmes to identify patterns in the writing similar to those used by the kidnappers masquerading as Mycroft. Before long she had amassed a wealth of information about the deals which could be used to stop them. She was in her element working on this - it was her kind of puzzle - and she barely noticed the impressed looks all three men were giving her as she blitzed through the swathes of data and unerringly identified the salient files from hundreds of similar ones.

So far there was no progress on discovering the person or group behind the whole thing, or on discovering who the informant in the office was, but Anthea had various half-truths and bits of data to plant late on Tuesday in the hopes of discovering where the leak was coming from. The challenge would be to get the timing right so they were able to remove the person quickly on Wednesday just before the signing without them realising Anthea and Mycroft were on to them.

Eventually Anthea conceded defeat and went to bed. Tuesday was going to be a long day and she got the feeling she'd need every minute of sleep she could get beforehand. Besides, she had a lot to think about. She lived alone, and like all of them, work was her all. She certainly hadn't expected to enjoy herself quite as much as she had that evening given the threats hanging over them all. There had been laughter and kind words around the dinner table even as they worked furiously on the problems ahead of them. There had been quiet appreciation from Mycroft and Sherlock at the way she had handled the data that day too, as well as casual acceptance from John that she was one of them. It had left her feeling surprisingly warm and grateful to be part of this, no matter how dangerous it might get.

* * *

**A/N** - Next chapter - John and Sherlock track down the first supplier on their list.

Thanks to all those who are following or have reviewed this story. Reviews, comments and con crit always appreciated x


	8. Pearson & Turner

Sherlock nodded approvingly at John as he came down the stairs suited-and-booted and ready for a day of corporate skullduggery at 7am on Tuesday morning. The approval turned into a frown as John tugged on the sleeve of his jacket for the fifth time and adjusted his tie.

"God this is uncomfortable, I feel completely restricted in this jacket," John grumbled as he flexed his arms in front of the impeccably dressed (as always) detective. "How am I supposed to do anything if I can't get my arms out straight? I'm sorry Sherlock, I know you don't see the problem, but not all of us spend our lives in suits. Give me practical clothing any day - never thought I'd miss army fatigues…"

"You'll be fine," Sherlock interrupted impatiently as he herded John out of the door, grabbing his coat and passing John's to him as they went. John felt somewhat better for the unexpected, and unusual, reassurance until Sherlock followed it up with "Besides, no-one will be looking at the stain on your jacket whilst you are wearing _that_ monstrosity of a tie."

Mycroft, who had been sitting quietly in one of the armchairs drinking a cup of tea, absolutely refrained from doing anything as childish as sniggering at the bickering flatmates. He took another sip of tea as he caught John's retort as the two men went out of the front door in search of a taxi.

"_What stain_? You couldn't have told me sooner? Well at least my shirt _fits_! No one is going to be looking at me full stop - they are going to be too busy watching _you_ to see when your buttons give in to the strain…I swear if your shirts get any tighter you are going to have to glue them on..."

The picture Mycroft's mind conjured up of his brother using superglue to keep his shirt on _absolutely didn't _cause him to snort his mouthful of tea in a most undignified way across the room. What with that and the way his cracked ribs ached ferociously from the pressure of _not_ laughing, it took Mycroft several minutes to compose himself after John and Sherlock had left. _Worth it though,_ he thought, smiling to himself as he cleaned away the spilt tea.

oOo oOo oOo

Despite the inauspicious start to the day John had cheered up by the time they reached the first of the offices they were targeting - those of Pearson & Turner, who made surgical instruments for export. This had been the smallest contract in terms of monetary value of the four identified by Anthea, and was an easy first target.

Anthea's purloined files had turned up a veritable goldmine of information about not only the company but the Chief Executive. The reason Mycroft had rejected them from the trade agreement the first time round was down to a gut feel about their accounts not quite adding up. Mycroft had explained that there had been another comparable supplier with impeccable records so the team had chosen them and not looked any further into Pearson & Turner.

Sherlock and Anthea had spent some time the previous night looking into the financial reports and had highlighted what appeared to be extremely creative accounting and more than a hint of illegal activity.

The somewhat sketchy plan they had drawn up was to get in to the offices, find some evidence they could pass on to the police, and hope they moved quick enough so that whilst the company was under investigation they would have to pull out of the trade agreement and leave the way clear for the original supplier to be reintroduced. There was a lot of detail missing from that plan but Sherlock had been confident that once he was in front of the Chief Exec and Chief Financial Officer he'd be able to deduce who was responsible for the fraud.

oOo oOo oOo

The offices of Pearson and Turner were as expected - the same as every other medium-sized company with central London offices. An entrance with lots of glass, hard-lined black sofas and an odd flower arrangement with big waxy looking green leaves greeted them, along with a desk with a security guard, and behind him access to the rest of the building.

Sherlock strolled confidently over to the burly guard in front of the bank of lifts while John picked up some of the marketing material on display. Thanks to Anthea 'Mr Holmes' had a breakfast meeting booked with the CEO and CFO at 8am, so Sherlock simply had to show his identification and they were provided with visitor passes, buzzed through and directed to the third floor.

Once the lift doors closed John and Sherlock exchanged a small smile - things were going well so far.

"Makes a change to see you use your own ID, Sherlock," John remarked, "Usually when we end up somewhere like this one of Lestrade's warrant cards makes an appearance."

Sherlock smirked and dug a warrant card out of his jacket pocket and flashed it at John. "I'm saving this for later on today. I have a feeling they aren't all going to be as easy to get into as this one was."

He'd just about managed to slide the card back into his pocket when the lift doors opened and Sherlock switched on his corporate-office persona. John hung back slightly and watched Sherlock stalk over to the reception desk. The change was subtle but John could see it - there was an extra edge of arrogance on display along with a hint of impatience, alluding to an important man with a very busy day ahead. John smirked slightly to himself as he realised that Sherlock was mimicking Mycroft's usual demeanour. He lacked only the umbrella to make the picture complete.

The receptionist was busy and threw a glancing look at their visitor passes before escorting them to the meeting room where two men were standing at the back pouring coffee. The one nearest to them was a large man - heavyset, with ruddy cheeks and a slight pot-belly. By contrast his colleague was tall and thin with wispy hair around a round face and wire rimmed glasses that gave the impression of someone permanently startled by the world around them.

"Hello! Mr Holmes! Good morning!" Boomed the first man as they walked through the door. Sherlock winced imperceptibly and steeled himself before offering his hand to be shook, knowing that a voice like that took pride in an excessively firm handshake. Sure enough, Sherlock's fingers were left with a slight tingly feeling once he had them returned.

"Simon Harwood, Chief Executive," the man had introduced himself as, "Pleasure to finally meet you Mr Holmes. And this is Robert Scott, our Finance Director"

"The pleasure is mine," Sherlock demurred as he shook hands with Robert Scott (medium-firm, warm from the coffee cup), "Thank you so much for meeting us at such short notice, it really is appreciated."

"Not at all, not at all," Harwood replied jovially, "It is the least we can do given how busy you must be with the agreement just days away. We were surprised when your assistant called and said it would be yourselves attending. Thought it would be some minion with an armful of documents to sign… not Mr Holmes himself. I thought you government officials booked their calendars out months in advance?"

Sherlock simply smiled and let the assumption he was his brother stand as John was introduced and the social niceties of coffee and pastries with a side of small-talk were observed - John gratefully accepting both (breakfast time had been sacrificed to indecision on the tie) while Sherlock took coffee until they were all seated around the table. Now it was time for Sherlock to come into action.

"Gentlemen," Sherlock started, looking around the table, "We just have a few questions and forms to be completed before Wednesday's agreement can be signed - standard procedure, I'm sure you are aware…" and then proceeded to overwhelm them with terminology and clauses from the vast numbers of forms Anthea had provided - all completely official, long winded and filled with legalise, and all completely irrelevant to the deal.

Within minutes both Simon Harwood and Robert Scott were muttering amongst themselves as they flicked through the documents with clause after clause of requirements and penalties. Sherlock noticed smugly that both men were looking considerably more agitated as they read. The first couple of forms had been very standard agreements that no company would object to, but the one they were reading now was cleverly worded to enable Mycroft Holmes' government office full access to any part of the business they felt like looking into, for reasons no greater than 'they felt like it'.

Scott, the finance director, was the first to crack, and with a muttered excuse about contacting the company lawyer he bolted from the room taking with him a copy of the agreement. Sherlock and John sat back and drank their coffee, both with serene expressions as though this was all perfectly normal and they spent all of their time in rooms such as these. Sherlock leant down to the notebook he had in front of him and scrawled a note for John, who frowned in incomprehension for some moments before he deciphered the appalling handwriting,

"_Harwood responsible for the fraud but Scott knows about it._

_Need to get into his office._

_You have to distract - need time _

_Scott will come for him in 2 mins. Stall him"_

John tapped his pen against the table in a seemingly random way - dash dash dash, dash dot dash - and Sherlock was instantly up and excusing himself from the room. Harwood looked up, confused for a moment, and John smiled blankly and went back to shuffling papers and asking vague questions about the sub-sections until Harwood's attention was caught by yet another unreasonable clause. It was clear to John that neither man wanted to sign these documents but they also didn't want to lose out on the trade agreement and the millions of pounds of profit it would provide… so long as their less-than-legal activities could be kept hidden.

As expected, Harwood's PA knocked on the door a minute or so after Sherlock had left requesting Harwood return to his office for an urgent phone call. He left abruptly, giving John no opportunity to stall him, much to his frustration. John quickly sent Sherlock a text: '_Sorry. Harwood enroute to office. No sign of Scott. JW_' and paced up and down the now empty conference room waiting for one or all of the men to return.

"Come _on_ Sherlock," he said to himself checking his phone anxiously, "Don't mess this up now… the day's only just starting. If you get caught now it'll be over before it's even begun."

oOo oOo oOo

To John's surprise the first person to return was Sherlock, who flashed him a triumphant grin before returning to his seat, surreptitiously sliding a piece of paper into his notebook. John assumed this meant he'd found something of significance but didn't have a chance to ask before Harwood and Scott returned together, united now with instructions from the lawyer to sign nothing until she had the opportunity to review the clauses.

Sherlock agreed to this delay easily and suggested they couriered the signed forms back to the offices care of Anthea that afternoon. Making a show of checking the time, John said they had to leave for their next appointment, and before many minutes had passed the hand-shaking and insincere goodbyes had been completed and Sherlock and John were in the lift returning to the lobby.

"That man really needs to learn not to overcompensate for his multiple inadequacies as human being with a strong grip," moaned Sherlock, flexing his fingers in pain.

John hummed sympathetically, his own hand feeling somewhat abused too. He held off on comments until they had left the building and turned the corner of the street before rounding on Sherlock and demanding,

"Well? What did you find?"

Sherlock flashed another smile and patted his notebook.

"Not as much as I would have liked," he explained, "Harwood returned to his office a touch quicker than I predicted, limiting my opportunities to explore, but I've enough for Mycroft to get a fraud investigation started. Did you meet his secretary? She'll be the key to this - it was obvious as soon as I spoke to her that she doesn't approve and will have kept files that should have been shredded. The management underestimated both her intelligence and her moral code."

"That's great Sherlock, you were brilliant," said John admiringly, pleased to have got one of their tasks out of the way so quickly and with relatively little fuss.

Sherlock fished his phone out of his pocket and took a photo of the paper he had stolen and texted it to Mycroft, who called him straight back. They had a brief conversation where Sherlock relayed the achievements of the morning so far and Mycroft promised to use his police contacts to get the Met's fraud squad out within the hour.

All that was left to do was to send Anthea a quick text to her burner mobile to confirm the job was done so she could line up the original company to take the place of the soon-to-be-ineligible Pearson and Turner on the trade agreement.

"One down, three to go," John remarked to Sherlock as they clambered into a cab for their next destination, "Not bad considering it's still only 9am."

* * *

**A/N** - For those who can't be bothered to guess/google, the dashes and dots John tapped out on the meeting room table spelled 'ok' in morse code.

Sorry for the delays in getting this chapter out - real life got in the way!

Reviews, comments and con crit always appreciated x


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